Classic Poem

(Ballade des seigneurs du temps jadis)

The Saints, Apostles, where are they,
Vestured in albs and each one stoled
In amict; who by neck did lay;
All sinners by the fiend controlled?
And even as these are gone, behold,
So all must go their fate to find,
Servants and sons, and young and old:
So much carries away the wind.
And Constantine's successor—say,
Where is he with his hands of gold?
And the French king who stands for ay
Above all kings whose tales are told;
Who, praising God and saintly souled,
Built convents, and high altars shrined?
Where are the names of these enrolled?
So much carries away the wind.
And where lie now the Dauphins, pray,
Of Vienne and Grenoble, cold?
The Lords of Dijon, Salins, aye,
And Dolles and others manifold?
Their trumpeters and heralds bold,
Pursuivants, men of every kind?
Are not their mouths well filled with mould?
So much carries away the wind.

ENVOI

By Death are princes all controlled,
Ev'n as by Death the herd and hind,
And all at last come to his fold.
So much carries away the wind.